


Little Things

by earlgreytea68



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:34:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23472532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgreytea68/pseuds/earlgreytea68
Summary: For this prompt: Peterick, taking care of each other in tiny ways.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 35
Kudos: 135





	Little Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TooRational](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/gifts).



> See, I said I was doing a bunch of writing. 
> 
> This is for the The Fall Out Boy Quarantine Ficathon going on here: https://andwhatyousaid.dreamwidth.org/990.html

They’re in the apartment of some girl named Carissa. Or maybe Clarice. Or maybe Clarissa. Patrick doesn’t know. His head hurts. Something had been off about the sound at the show and his ears ring still. It’s not good, and he’s tired, and his throat is the dry sort-of raspy Patrick doesn’t like, and he should really be getting better at this, this, like, _singing_ thing, he really should.

Patrick’s in the kitchen at the back of the apartment, with his head down on the table. From the front of the apartment, there’s muted laughter and conversation. The rest of his band, being normal humans. Patrick kind of wants to go home. He’s questioning all of his life decisions right now.

“Here,” says a voice, and Patrick squints up at Pete. He hadn’t even noticed him come into the kitchen.

“What?” he croaks. Pete is so blurry. Patrick sits up and puts his glasses on.

“For you, Lunchbox,” Pete says, and nudges something over to him. A mug.

Patrick looks at it blankly. “What’s that?”

“Tea,” answers Pete. “You should have some tea, after you sing.”

It sounds like a good idea. Soothing. Patrick pulls the mug over and dunks the teabag up and down. He says, “Where’d you get this?”

“I made it. While you were dozing over here.” Pete sits at the table. “You don’t feel good.” It’s not a question.

Patrick glares at him. “It was a rough show, Wentz.”

Pete shrugs.

It irritates Patrick, this blasé attitude. “It was a _terrible_ show,” he amends.

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“It was that bad. I’m not a good singer, Pete. I’m not cut out for this. You should…” This hurts to say. Patrick has to swallow around his unhappy throat. “You should find someone else for this band. I’m not sure I’m a good fit.”

Pete leans forward. He says, “Lunchbox,” and Patrick answers to it because apparently he fucking does that now, looks at him expectantly. “This was our sixth show. We’re going to get better. I promise.” He taps Patrick’s mug and stands up. “Drink your tea. You’ll feel better.”

Patrick doubts it.

Pete pauses in the doorway, looks back at him. “I’m not doing this without you, Patrick,” he says. And then he walks out of the kitchen.

Patrick takes a sip of his tea.

***

Patrick knows when Pete isn’t sleeping. It’s not that he’s a loud insomniac, but the active energy of him seems to fill the room up, his fretfulness over not being able to sleep.

Patrick edges closer to him in the van, whispers, “Hey.”

Pete hums in response.

“Can’t sleep?” Patrick asks, which is the stupidest thing to ask, _obviously_.

“It’s okay,” Pete whispers back. “Go to sleep.”

Patrick is reluctant to do that while Pete is distressingly awake. Patrick says in a low voice, “Look, you’ve got to, like, I don’t know, maybe some breathing exercises?”

“You think I don’t have techniques for my insomnia?” Pete asks sarcastically. “I’ve only had it _forever_.”

Patrick ignores him. “Like this,” he says, and reaches out and puts his hand on Pete’s stomach. “You’ve got to make sure you breathe deep enough to make my hand raise.” Pete is very still under his touch. Patrick isn’t sure Pete is breathing at all. Patrick looks up at Pete’s face but it’s too dark to see.

Then Pete breathes, his stomach lifting Patrick’s hand up.

“There you go,” Patrick encourages. “Like that. Slow.”

One of Pete’s hands come up and intertwines with Patrick’s on his stomach. Patrick lets their hands cling together, until he can finally tell that Pete’s sleeping, breathing deep and slow without the active effort.

Patrick leaves their hands tangled together, because that seemed to help.

***

It’s a hotel night, much longed-for, and Patrick barely waits for his backpack to hit the floor of the room before he’s claimed the shower.

He emerges feeling halfway human again. The room he’s sharing with Pete is empty but the room next door, where Joe and Andy are staying, is loud, so Patrick goes over there. They’re in the middle of a pizza and a furious debate over some terrible porn that they’re mocking. Patrick shakes his head at them and helps himself to pizza.

Pete says, “Oh, Lunchbox,” and tears himself away from the porn to snag the cup of tea on the nightstand and hand it to him.

Patrick smiles and murmurs, “Thanks.”

***

Patrick doesn’t say, _How could you?_ Patrick knows Pete’s head well enough not to even ask.

So he doesn’t.

Pete looks miserable and small and scared, and Patrick can’t stand it. He kicks off his shoes and clambers into Pete’s childhood bed with him.

Pete clings to him tightly and mumbles into his chest, “You should have a good time in Europe, you shouldn’t, like, don’t _think_ about me.”

“Pete,” Patrick says. “Fucking shut up.”

Pete shudders and mumbles, “I can’t sleep. I can’t _sleep_. It’s so loud.”

“Shh,” Patrick says. “Shh. Breathe with me, huh? Breathe with me. Whenever wherever you need it, I need you to call me and breathe with me. I need you to promise, huh?”

Pete nods frantically, and Patrick entwines their fingers and makes Pete take deep even breaths until he falls asleep, curled tight into Patrick.

“I’m not doing this without you, Pete,” Patrick whispers into his hair.

***

They have a tight travel schedule to the next city and basically everything about the show was running late all night so they’re late getting on the road. As soon as they swing themselves onto the bus, it jerks into motion, and they do rock-paper-scissors for the first shower and Patrick loses and flings himself onto the couch in a sulk.

Pete goes into the bathroom and then comes out wrapped in a towel.

“What are you doing?” Patrick demands.

Pete doesn’t answer. He just messes around in the kitchen in his stupid _towel_. And then, a few minutes later, he hands Patrick a cup of tea.

And then he goes back into the bathroom.

***

Patrick’s phone rings in the middle of the night. He reaches for it groggily, grunts, “Hello?” into it.

“Patrick,” Pete’s voice says.

He doesn’t say anything else because he doesn’t have to.

“I’m right here,” Patrick says. “Breathe with me. I’m right here.”

***

Patrick has three women around him who all clearly wish he was in the mood. He’s not in the mood. Patrick hates afterparties, finds them exhausting, but the label fucking insists these days.

And then Pete cuts through the three women. “Excuse me, ladies,” he says, with that smile that always gets him whatever he wants. “The rock star needs some special treatment.” He turns a different smile on Patrick, his Patrick-smile, and hands him a cup of tea.

Patrick smiles back and takes it.

***

“You left the party early,” Pete says when he calls.

“I was tired,” Patrick replies. He means _I was bored_.

“Hmph,” says Pete dramatically. “How’m I supposed to fall asleep now?”

“Have you ever once called upon me for sleep help and I failed you?” Patrick demands. “I’m certainly not going to start now. Let’s breathe.”

***

Pete goes home with Patrick without prior agreement, but Patrick’s okay with that. He sticks their VMA on the counter while Pete sheds his leather jacket and moves familiarly around the kitchen. Patrick watches him take a mug down, put the kettle on, pull out a teabag from Patrick’s stash.

Patrick sits at the breakfast bar and says, “You know, I don’t think you’ve missed a performance, not one, not in all these years.”

Pete glances up at him through his lashes as he opens the teabag. “Look, someone’s got to take care of the money-maker, am I right?”

“I take care of it just fine,” Patrick protests.

“You didn’t in the beginning,” Pete says, watching the kettle despite the proverb.

“How did you even manage to find a teabag in that apartment?” Patrick asks, and he knows Pete knows what he’s talking about. “I was surprised they even had a mug in there.”

“I had the teabag,” Pete replies, still looking at the kettle.

Patrick blinks, surprised. “Huh?”

The kettle clicks. Pete pours boiling water into the mug, slides it to Patrick. “I had the teabag, Lunchbox. I knew you should have some tea. I took the teabag to the show with me, for you.”

Patrick stares at him. “Pete. I didn’t know you… You really didn’t have to do that.”

“And you,” Pete says, leaning on the breakfast bar next to Patrick, “have picked up your phone every time I called you, whenever, wherever, to just breathe with me.” Pete looks at Patrick for a long moment, then says softly, “You really didn’t have to do that.”

Ironically, Patrick _can’t_ breathe right now. “Yeah, I did,” he whispers.

“Me, too,” Pete murmurs, and leans in. “Me, too.”


End file.
